


I make believe

by KFlynn



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Eames calling Arthur Darling, Other, Trying to live a normal life, a bit fluff maybe, letter from Cobb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-19 03:13:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5951677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KFlynn/pseuds/KFlynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somehow it had turned into a strange ritual. He would drink coffee here and Eames would come around. They would talk, sometimes just sit in silence, actually enjoying each other’s company. And then they would leave, spend the day together. Sometimes they parted ways after they left the café. They never talked about it, as Eames put it ‘this would make things boring’.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I make believe

**Author's Note:**

> It's totally my flatmate's fault that I began to love Eames/Arthur! But now I cannot get enough of them and finally dared to write my own story, although there's not a lot of interaction between them. But this was perfect to get into the mood and practice writing Arthur's POV.
> 
> Not beta'd. All mistakes are mine.
> 
> I listened to this playlist while writing: http://8tracks.com/elenamaries/darling

The people in the small café came in, some left the door open, other grumbled at that as the cool spring wind gushed in and rushed past their bodies, slipping through every little inch of exposed skin. Others left, holding the door open for others, letting the mother with her small child pass through first.

There was the old man, who came in every day, looked through the newspaper and almost jumped out of his seat every time anyone seemed to need help with the door. Then a pleasant smile would cross his lips as he sat down again, pleased with his deeds. One the newspaper was read, he disappeared with the spring air following his closing of said door.

Two women sat behind the newspaper man today, talking in Spanish. They did not talked silently, in fact, they did not seem to care whether anyone heard them or not, probably sure that no one understood them anyway. The old woman next to him, however, shot them disapproving glances, grasping every chance she got at sighing and rolling her eyes to show how much this bothered her.

The young man on the other side stared at his laptop screen, big red headphones covering his ears. His foot tapped slowly, with shoes that once were white. Now they were an interesting mixture between brown and grey. A Barista walked up to him, taking some of the trash with hurried movements before she returned to her workplace as new clients rushed it.

On the small table to his right stood a coffee in a see-through glass, the syrup slowly sinking down, forming a white ground underneath the brown on top. The cookie with the almonds on top lay half eaten on a small plate next to the coffee. His eyes were fixed on a piece of paper, which turned out to be a letter on a second glance.

A paper filled with words and sentences, describing how the life of a friend changed. How his children behaved and how he tried to find a normal job and provide for his family. But also distressing words of haunting dreams and the ever lurking desire to jump into another adventure, to see these unbelievable things again. But he had promised. This had been his last job.

He had promised.

A sentence which was repeated more often than necessary. He probably had to phrase it that often because he needed to tell himself that the time he had before was over now. He was a man of his word and he would not go running off again. But Arthur knew that it would never let him go. His sleep was different, would probably never be normal again. From time to time he would turn and wonder if what he was seeing was really real. And even more often he would frown at the limitations of reality and yearn for the creativity of dreams. It had been a job, yes, a terror for him partly. But also such an unbelievable miracle, an adventure like none else. And now he left that track, and had to learn to move more slowly, to take others with him and most of all to fully return to the world of the wake.

He slowly folded the letter, back into its original format and then placed it in the pocket of his trousers with a silent sigh.

His gaze turned to the window, watching the people passing by, the cars driving up and down. The postman rushing past, the child stopping to close his jacket while his father was waiting. The stores slowly opening, the birds sitting down on the pavement, only to fly off in a hurry as a dog came rushing.

The newspaper man reached the last page and the Spanish people laughed, filling the room with their laughter.

He could still feel the letter underneath his fingers, the carefully chosen paper. And even more he could understand what he struggled with. While he had never said that this was to be his very last job, he had tried to return to the wake as well, applied and tried to find another job. But it was difficult to explain what he had done all those past years.

Fortunately enough he had still enough money to theoretically do nothing for quite some years to come.

But he found himself growing restless. His sleep war horrible and he often found himself lying wide awake in his bed. If not that, he woke up hours after closing his eyes, feeling more stressed than before. And when got up and tried to maintain a daily schedule, he found himself failing. He needed something else. And unfortunately he knew exactly what that was…

“Hello, Darling!”

No, that wasn’t it. He longed for the dreamworld, for the construction of those unbelievable creations, for his mazes and the adrenaline running through his veins. It was as if he was addicted and terribly missing his drug.

“Good morning, Eames.”

He felt his own chair shiver slightly as his visitor let himself fall into the other chair, reaching for the cookie, finishing it with ease. Arthur did not even raise an eyebrow. He was used to it by now.

Somehow it had turned into a strange ritual. He would drink coffee here and Eames would come around. They would talk, sometimes just sit in silence, actually enjoying each other’s company. And then they would leave, spend the day together. Sometimes they parted ways after they left the café. They never talked about it, as Eames put it ‘this would make things boring’.

“I think he sent us both the same letter, eh?”

Arthur glanced up, right into the Forger’s eyes, staring at him.

“Seems so. What do you think about it?”

“Think? He’s terrible at trying to convince himself that he could just stop. No one ever could. One day all of this will come back to him, but I give him that – he’s trying. If he succeeds? Only time will tell.”

“You don’t think he will?”

“I am curious. Maybe if he can, we could too.”

“You’d want that?”

“Sometimes.”

The newspaper man folded the paper, placed it on the table before he slowly got up, waving towards the Barista.

“I miss it.”

“I’d hoped you’d say that, Darling.”

Now it was time to raise an eyebrow.

“Why?”

“I got a job for us.”


End file.
